


Sparks

by shalako



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, Domestic, Dyslexic Gold, Gold is supremely awkward in this one, Gratuitous Crying, Gratuitous Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Referenced Child Neglect, Trauma, Whump, actual physical hurt, extreme levels of awkwardness ahoy, forced roommates, minor injury
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-07 16:30:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15912033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shalako/pseuds/shalako
Summary: Gold's gotten used to people breaking and entering in his home. It's about time someone mixed it up a little.





	Sparks

**Author's Note:**

> You guys can probably expect the second chapter to this at some point in 2025

Gold barely saw it coming in time to duck and hide behind the kitchen counter. Above him, the window shattered and glass rained down on Gold’s shoulders; he turned around, losing his grip on his cane, and felt the flames more than he saw them -- the thing thrown through his window wasn’t a rock or a brick, like he’d initially thought: it was a Molotov cocktail.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Gold said. He scrabbled for his cane and forced himself to his feet despite the pain in his knee and ankle -- he’d sprained it this morning, crawling out of bed half-asleep, and he didn’t have time to curse his luck right now but he _definitely_ would later.

Gold peeked out the broken kitchen window, making sure no one was waiting outside. He yanked a small towel out of a nearby drawer and dropped it; by the time he stood again to run it under the water faucet, his whole body was trembling, trying to move faster than he physically could. He approached the burning bottle and tossed the towel over it, sighing with relief when the flames died down.

Then he heard the sound of shattering glass again, and again, coming from different areas of the house. Gold hobbled into the hallway, saw fire consuming his living room. He turned back to the kitchen; there was a door there that led to the backyard.

But he never reached it. As Gold passed the broken window - glass lodging in his bare feet - he felt a sharp, blinding pain in his head. Before he could find out what it was, his vision was greying, and he felt unnaturally light.

Gold collapsed to the floor, unconscious, as his house burned.

* * *

He opened his eyes. It was warm, far too warm. Like sitting too close to a bonfire. And there were people leaning over him, but Gold couldn’t see their faces. They were pulling him, hands wrapped around his legs, staring at him with smooth, glassy faces.

He could hear a roaring noise, like water rushing, but nothing else.

His vision went black again.

* * *

Gold’s first waking memory wasn’t of the firemen dragging him out of the house or of the paramedics tending to his burns. Though he appeared coherent at the time, he didn’t remember answering questions from Sheriff Swan or getting his pupils checked for uneven dilation. His first memory was of standing in his yard in his bare feet with a shock blanket around his shoulders, watching his home burn until nothing but a sooty skeleton was left.

 _That was a historical house_ , Gold thought with a dull spike of irritation. He wasn’t even allowed to change the paint color without petitioning the local government. He had the wild idea, for just a moment, that they could catch the arsonists by checking to see if anyone had filled out paperwork to burn his house down. Then he shook his head, trying to clear any stupid thoughts away. He needed to remain calm and sensible.

He could stay in the pawnshop tonight, if he needed to; it had a futon but not a shower or even a bathroom, so that was his last choice. He could take any of his own, uninhabited apartments -- scarce though they were -- but they were unfurnished, and he’d need to have the electricity turned on. The best choice, it seemed, was his cabin in the forest, but the silly thing didn’t have any locks on the doors yet, and Gold didn’t like the idea of staying in a house made of wood at the moment anyway.

He tore his gaze away from his house, eyebrows furrowed. It was important not to think of the things he’d lost to the fire. Bae’s room, perfectly preserved for ten years, would be completely gone now. His bed, his toy trucks, his stuffed animals and children’s books with crayon pictures scribbled on the pages. And all the photographs -- Gold forced himself to swallow around the lump in his throat. If he was lucky, some photographs might survive. He’d been in a house-fire once before, when he was seven, and one of his dad’s magazines had made it out completely unscathed, somehow. So it wasn’t impossible, especially since the pictures were in different places all around the house, but …

“Mr. Gold?”

Gold jumped. There was a warm, gloved hand on his arm. Sheriff Swan.

“What are you still doing here?” she asked, not un-gently. “It’s not gonna do you any good to watch it burn, you know. The firefighters have it under control.”

Gold stared at her. Her face and clothes were clean, untouched by fire -- so clean, in fact, that when Gold looked at himself and his ash-coated surroundings, Emma seemed somewhat unreal. Gold closed his eyes for a moment, feeling like he might float away.

“I know,” he said.

“We called your father for you,” said Emma, her voice wavering with uncertainty. Gold’s eyes snapped open; had he told them about his father? He didn’t remember. He felt firmly grounded, his feet deep in the snow, but at the same time he felt like he was sitting somewhere watching a movie, where Emma played a sheriff in some other, fictional town, talking to a fictional man. “He never answered the phone,” she said. “But we can drive you over there, if you want.”

“No, it’s fine,” said Gold. Just the thought of his father made him feel ten times colder. Even if Malcolm weren’t repugnant in every way, Gold had been in his father’s apartment a few times before and considering just how filthy it was, it would be better for his health to sleep on the street.

“You sure?” Emma asked.

“Yes.”

“Well,” she said, “is there anywhere else you can go?”

“Plenty of places,” said Gold, thinking of his unfurnished apartments. He looked down at his bare feet and then blinked hard; his toes were turning blue. The winter chill caught up with him, becoming firmer, more tangible.

“Can I give you a ride, then?” Emma asked, tearing Gold’s gaze away from his feet. He furrowed his eyebrows at her.

“No. I can drive.”

“Your car’s stuck in the garage,” said Emma, looking at him with something dangerously close to pity. Gold looked over at the garage - the roof and walls had caved in around his car; it wasn’t even visible. “Gold, I feel like we’re talking in circles. We keep going over the same things and you keep asking the same questions - are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” Gold said. He shifted, dismayed at how hard it was to move his feet, and then - like an idiot - put all his weight down on his sprained ankle. Gold crashed to his knees; Emma reached out and grabbed his arm but wasn’t quick enough to stop him from falling.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Gold breathed. He reached for his cane, but couldn’t find it, couldn’t even see a dent in the snow where it had fallen - how far could it possibly have rolled? He started searching through the white expanse, snowflakes clinging to his fingers. The cold was really starting to eat at him now. His pajama bottoms, already caked in soot, were now soaked through from the sludge.

“Gold?” said Emma, kneeling down next to him. She put a gentle hand on his arm, trying to stop him from searching. “What are you looking for?”

“My _cane_ ,” Gold said, not looking up at her. His face was red, his eyes burning with frustration.

“You don’t have it,” Emma said. Gold didn’t stop looking for it; finally, Emma grabbed his hands and pulled them toward her, clasping them between her own. Gold stared at her with his mouth hanging open, the sudden warmth scrambling his brain. Emma didn’t do comfort; he tried to tug his hands away.

“ _Stop_ ,” Emma said, her grip tightening. “Gold, your cane is inside. The firemen were focused on getting you out; none of them grabbed it.”

Gold’s mouth opened, silently forming words for a moment. “It’s in the _house_?” he managed finally.

“Yes.”

“ _Burning_?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Emma said, her face flushed. “I’m sorry -- look, we need to get you out of this snow. Can you think of anyone who can take you in for the night?”

Gold didn’t answer, and made no move to get up when Emma did. His cane was in the house still. So his house was on fire, he couldn’t drive anywhere, and he couldn’t walk.

What a great fucking day.

“Gold,” Emma sighed. She tugged at his arm, to no avail. “Gold, come on. Seriously. You can mourn your cane later.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled. He grabbed onto her hands, letting her help him to his feet. “I--”

His voice trailed off. Behind Emma, a rusty old Ford was creeping along the road, the driver -- Dr. Hopper -- gawking at Gold’s house. Gold could feel his face heating up again even as he shivered.

Hopper parked his car, sending a stab of anger through Gold. Then Hopper was getting out and crossing the lawn, heading right for him with his dog following on a leash.

“Mr. Gold?” said Hopper, his eyes wide. “Are you okay? What happened?”

Gold waited for Emma to wave Hopper away, but she didn’t. In fact, she seemed almost relieved to see him.

“There was a fire,” she said, gesturing lamely to the house. Hopper nodded, his gaze raking over Gold in worry.

“Were you inside?” he asked. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

“I’m fine,” Gold grumbled. Hopper and Emma exchanged glances; then Emma’s eyes flickered to him, looking almost guilty, and she said,

“Archie, uh, Gold doesn’t … have a place to stay. Would you mind …?”

Gold’s lips parted slightly in a look of deep offense. Hopper blinked rapidly, but when he processed Emma’s meaning, a warm smile lit up his face and Gold’s expression melted into one of utter bafflement.

“Of course!” said Hopper. “I’ve got a spare room -- I mean, the sheets are a little dusty, but I can just wash ‘em first and they’ll be fine.” His smile got, if possible, even broader. “I’d be _glad_ to have you, Mr. Gold.”

Emma turned and looked at Gold expectantly. He was trying not to sneer.

“Right,” he said. “Forgive me, Dr. Hopper - that’s a lovely offer, but I’m afraid I don’t need a place to stay.”

Hopper’s smile dropped; his eyes passed over the corpse of Gold’s house. “You’re gonna stay … here …?”

“No,” Emma said, her voice tight with frustration. “Gold thinks he’s gonna stay in one of his empty apartments, without furniture or heat.”

“In _this_ weather?” Hopper asked, looking horrified. Gold glared at Emma; he wasn’t sure if he’d told her earlier that he might stay in one of his apartments or if she’d just somehow managed to read his mind, but he didn’t like it.

“I know,” Emma said, in response to Hopper. “It’s stupid.”

“Well …” said Hopper, unwilling to insult anybody. “I’m sure y-you have your reasons, Mr. Gold. But really, I-I must insist --”

Gold shook his head, but Hopper and Emma ignored him.

“--you _are_ my landlord, after all,” said Hopper. “I mean, technically, you could probably just take my place and leave me out in the cold, if you w-wanted, but -- er -- not that you _would_ , I just --”

Gold glowered down at the ground. Ash was floating through the air, mingling with the snow, and he could feel it settling in his hair. He wanted to get away from here; he didn’t want to share a place with anybody, least of all the over-friendly Dr. Hopper, but it didn’t seem like he had much of a choice.

“Alright,” he said quietly. Emma furrowed her eyebrows, apparently unconvinced that he’d really said that. “I’ll go with you, I just …” Gold grimaced. “I need help walking to your car.”

Hopper’s eyes widened; he looked down at Gold’s right hand, where his cane normally was. “Oh,” he said. “Right, of course -- just -- should I just take your arm, or …?”

Emma moved to help Gold, but Hopper got to him first, making the whole process last twice as long as he awkwardly figured out how best to support Gold’s weight. He put Gold’s right arm over his shoulder and Gold pulled away, visibly pissed.

“My _left_ arm,” he snapped. Hopper stared at him in total confusion.

“But you always hold your cane--”

“Well, I hold it wrong,” Gold said, his cheeks burning. “It’s habit. Just --”

He gestured futilely and Hopper took the hint, clomping through the snow over to Gold’s left side. They made their way to Hopper’s car slowly, with Pongo dancing around them and wrapping his leash around their legs more than once. Emma followed them, tugging Pongo away and admonishing him whenever necessary.

Finally, they made it to the curb. Hopper abandoned Gold for a moment to open the passenger side door, but Pongo hopped in before Gold could. Hopper turned bright red.

“Pongo!” he said. “Come on, move to the backseat, boy. Come on. Backseat.”

Gold turned and widened his eyes at Emma as if to say, _Are you seeing this, too?_

“C’mon, Pongo, we talked about this,” Hopper pleaded. “Backseat!”

“It’s fine,” said Gold. He was pretty sure he’d go crazy listening to Hopper reason with a Dalmatian. “I’ll take the back.”

Archie turned to look at him, his eyebrows raised in supplication. “Are you sure?”

“Positive,” said Gold gruffly. He wrenched the door open and slid inside, moving his feet gingerly; they were so cold now that it was hard to remember which one was sprained. He glanced at Emma, saw she wasn’t looking at him, and pulled his knees to his chest, curling into a ball so he could see his toes better.

As a child, Gold had gotten frostbite every winter, without fail. He was always either homeless or living somewhere without indoor heating. It would start with little red spots on his toes or fingers, spots like chilblains, that hurt to the touch. And then the spots would turn purple and be even more painful, eliciting screams whenever someone touched them. Usually, by the time they got to that stage, spring was creeping into summer, and the weather was warm enough that the purple spots would fade away. Only once had they turned numb and dead, unable to even move. He’d had to go to a doctor to get rid of it.

Long story short, even as an adult with a well-heated home, Gold was more susceptible to frostbite than most. He examined his fingers first, rubbing them gently, searching for any sore areas. They seemed fine -- still cold as hell, but fine. Another glance out the window to make sure no one was watching him; Emma and Hopper were talking (probably discussing him, Gold thought, his stomach twisting in anxiety), paying him no attention.

Gold pulled his left foot into his lap and ran his fingers over it carefully, wincing in pain. Entire sections of his foot were hard and red, some of them bigger than his thumb.

The driver’s side door opened and Hopper got in, humming cheerfully. “Okay, Mr. Gold,” he said, starting the car. “Let’s get you home.”

Gold grunted in reply and lowered his left foot to the floor only to replace it with his right. Pongo whined and stuck his head around the side of the seat, staring at Gold with his tongue hanging out.

More red spots. Gold sighed; he hadn’t had frostbite in two years and had already forgotten how strange it was. He rubbed his feet as gently as he could, trying to force warmth into them. Pongo stretched his neck out and licked Gold’s toes, earning a half-hearted glare.

“You okay back there?” Hopper asked, adjusting the rearview mirror.

“Yes,” Gold said, letting his feet drop to the floor. He watched Hopper turn the heat up without comment.

“I-I figured we could stop by the general store first before we go to my place,” Hopper said. “So we can just … pick up some, uh, necessities, you know? Like … socks, and … uh, pajamas. Well, pajamas that don’t - that are clean.”

Gold stared out the window for a moment, then reached into his pocket, suddenly struck by a horrible thought. He rooted around, his chest tightening with dread, and then checked his other pocket. Nothing.

“Something wrong?” Hopper asked, glancing at Gold in the rearview mirror. Gold felt like he’d just been struck.

“I … don’t have my wallet.”

“Oh,” Hopper said. He turned his eyes back to the road, sounding infuriatingly unsurprised. “Well, I-I mean, that kinda makes sense. You _are_ wearing pajamas. Your wallet’s probably still in the house.”

Gold stared at Hopper with a blank face, hiding the horror he felt through sheer habit. If his wallet was at the house, then it was gone. He’d have left it on his dresser, and the entire second floor was completely demolished.

“Fuck,” Gold whispered, hanging his head. He ran his fingers through his hair and let out a long, slow breath. He missed the concerned glance Hopper sent him.

He had to calm down. Everything about this situation was fixable: his house was fully insured, and all he had to do was use Hopper’s phone to call the bank tomorrow morning and he’d be right as rain. There was no reason to panic. It was the cold that was really affecting him, not the loss of his wallet -- the combination of early-stage frostbite, homelessness, and having no money in his pocket was making him feel like a child again. Helpless and alone.

The car suddenly slowed down, turning off the road to park next to the general store. Hopper pulled his key out of the ignition and twisted around to face Gold, his eyes flickering briefly toward Gold’s bare feet.

“Okay,” he said. “I’m thinking I’ll get you some socks, underwear, new pajama pants … they’ve got some cheap packs of plain t-shirts in there, but I don’t think they have any jeans. Do you have any clothes hanging around somewhere other than your house? Your, uh …” Hopper stuttered for a moment. “Your girlfriend’s house, maybe?”

Gold tried not to grimace; did people really think he had girlfriends or was this a misguided attempt at flattery? He hadn’t had a girlfriend in years. “No,” he said.

“Well, is there anywhere you need to -- to go tomorrow? Cuz if you don’t then we’re fine, you can just, uh, stay in your pajamas, until --”

“Yes, that’s fine,” said Gold. Hopper nodded.

“Okay. I’ll be right back then. Here--”

He tossed his keys into the backseat and Gold caught them, surprised that his fingers could even bend enough to grab onto the keyring.

“In case you wanna turn the heat up,” Hopper explained. “Or listen to music.”

He pulled away, disappearing into the general store. Gold leaned forward and tossed the keys into the cup-holder by Hopper’s seat. Pongo took that opportunity to thoroughly lick Gold’s hand, covering it in saliva.

“Good boy,” Gold muttered, giving the dog’s head an absent-minded pat. He settled back in his seat and looked outside, watching the snow fall. Twenty minutes passed, filled with overly-sad Christmas songs and a few intermittent bits of banter between the DJs. The radio was halfway through a questionable hard-rock version of Silent Night when Hopper came back, depositing two plastic bags in the backseat and throwing something in the trunk. His presence made the Christmas songs instantly more bearable - Gold figured that was because at least someone was suffering with him now. Hopper plopped down in the front seat and slammed the door closed; Gold leaned over and prodded the bags open as the car started again, peeking at what was inside.

Socks, underwear, and t-shirts, as Hopper promised. Plus toothpaste, a toothbrush, a size-large pair of Mickey Mouse pajama pants (Gold made an offended noise when he saw the tag; he was a small), razors, and a stick of extra-strength deodorant (Gold shot Hopper a scandalized glare).

“I didn’t know what kind of shampoo you use,” Hopper said, raising his voice to be heard over the radio. “But I figured you’d wanna take a shower and you wouldn’t want to use my half-full bottle of generic two-in-one, so I just grabbed the expensive stuff.”

Gold pulled the second bag toward him and glanced inside. His heart twinged guiltily over Dr. Hopper spending extra money on him, and then twinged even worse when he realized that Hopper apparently considered L’oreal expensive. Then again, it wasn’t long ago that Gold thought the same thing.

 _How much does Hopper make?_ Gold wondered. He’d always assumed psychiatrists were swimming in money, but he supposed there weren’t many patients to be had in a small town like Storybrooke. And most potential patients here wouldn’t be able to afford the kind of extravagant prices one heard of on TV, so Hopper would have to lower his rates …

Or maybe Hopper just donated a lot to charity. That seemed like something he would do; it would explain why his sweaters were always patched and threadbare. And he seemed like the type who would genuinely consider it a hobby to Google new charities to donate to around the world.

Gold sifted through the bag; there was shampoo and conditioner, a bottle of body soap that smelled (he popped the lid open and sniffed it) aggressively floral, a comb, and …

Gold’s eyebrows furrowed. He pulled a small, square bottle out of the bag and concentrated on the purple label. One of Gold’s most preciously-guarded secrets was that he couldn’t read very well; he hadn’t started attending school until he was twelve or thirteen, and remembered quite vividly the day his dad told him, at the age of six, that the school had called and said he was _too stupid_ to attend. So it took him a while to read the label; the letters seemed to dance around, evading his eyes.

“Are these … vitamins?” Gold asked finally. Hopper glanced back briefly.

“Uh, yeah. Melatonin. It helps you sleep -- they’re gummies.”

“I can see that,” Gold said, shaking the bottle. The vitamins flopped around noiselessly. “You have insomnia?”

“Uh, no,” said Hopper. “They’re … well, they’re for you. I thought maybe you might need them. At least for tonight.”

Gold stared at Hopper for at least a minute before dropping the vitamins back into the bag. He wasn’t sure whether to feel annoyed or touched. Then he remembered the extra-strength deodorant and decided he was annoyed.

He kept quiet, staring out the window as they neared Hopper’s house. Hopper was one of few people to rent a house from Gold, instead of an apartment. It was one of Gold’s nicer properties, too, though it was surrounded by a neighborhood of houses that, while big, tended to be in a state of disrepair.

Hopper lived in an elderly neighborhood, where residents were too old to paint their houses or fix the roof on their own. Gold had had a hard time persuading anyone to rent there, and he still had a small soft spot in his heart for Hopper, just because he’d accepted the house so gladly.

They pulled into the driveway. Gold reached over and looped the bags over his forearm before sliding out, using the car as support. Pongo bounded out after him and stared up at Gold, tail wagging, while his master opened the trunk.

“Here you go,” said Hopper, coming back into sight. Gold shot him a disinterested look and then looked again, his eyes widening. Hopper was holding a cane in his hands -- cheap, adjustable, and plastic, but in the same style as the one Gold usually used.

“It’s -- it’s not as good as your old one,” said Hopper apologetically. He placed it in Gold’s hands and Gold stared down at it numbly. “But I figured it would work well for -- well, until we can get you a new one.”

Silence. Gold tried to swallow past the sudden lump in his throat.

“Gold?” said Hopper gently. “Is it -- I mean, is it okay? Did I get the right kind?”

“Yes,” said Gold, his voice coming out a little hoarse. “Yes, I -- it’s fine, thank you. It’s perfect.” He fiddled with the knob on the side, his fingers slipping once or twice, looking for something to say that wasn’t complete gibberish. “It’s -- it’s adjustable.”

“I … know …”

“Right,” Gold sniffed. He was sniffing, of course, because of the cold, not for any other reason. He loosened the cane and slid the bottom half down, then locked it and tested the height. He did this a few times, grateful for an excuse to look away from Dr. Hopper.

“Let me know if you need any help,” Hopper offered. He bent down behind Gold and grabbed Pongo’s leash.

“I’m fine,” said Gold, wiping his nose while Hopper was looking away. He tested the cane one more time and deemed it good enough for use. When he glanced up, he caught a look of sympathy on Hopper’s face and instantly steeled his features. “Lead the way, then,” Gold said briskly. “You’re the one with the house keys.”

Hopper nodded and whistled at Pongo. They hurried up the driveway with Gold not far behind; while Hopper unlocked the front door, Gold’s mind churned, trying to figure out why Hopper had looked at him like that. Was he pitying Gold because he needed a cane, or had he noticed how wet Gold’s eyes were? Because Gold’s eyes were only wet because of the wind. That was all.

The door swung open; Hopper leaned down and unclipped Pongo’s leash, letting him race into the house. Gold had a hunch Pongo was heading straight for the food bowl.

“Come on in,” Hopper said somewhat pointlessly, since Gold was already closing the door behind him. “Here, I can take those bags.”

Gold held out his arm, allowing Hopper to slide the grocery bags off of him. His eyes flickered around the parlor, taking everything in. The last time he’d been in Hopper’s house -- years ago; back when Bae was still with him, in fact -- it had been unfurnished and undecorated. Gold couldn’t suppress the nasty thought that it should have remained that way; Hopper’s taste in interior design was decidedly grandmotherly.

Still though, Gold liked the feeling of soft carpet under his feet. None of the rooms in his house were carpeted, except for Bae’s room.

He looked down, wiggling his toes. And then he realized that the carpet was white and his feet were black with soot, and he felt like he’d been doused in cold water.

He leaned on his cane and raised his left foot, staring at the smudgy grey footprint he’d left on the floor.

“Shit,” Gold whispered. He looked up guiltily; Dr. Hopper had followed Pongo into the kitchen, so he wasn’t there to see, but there wasn’t really any way Gold could hide this. He put his foot back down carefully, exactly on top of the footprint, and took a quick breath.

“Dr. Hopper?” he called. Or rather, tried to call -- his voice came out as a strangled groan. Gold cleared his throat and tried again. “Dr. Hopper, could you come here for a moment?”

There was a pause; Gold heard a cupboard shutting in the kitchen.

“And bring the socks,” he added, glad that he could at least come up with a solution, even if it was a little too late. He heard the plastic bags rustling and then Hopper came into sight, ripping the package of socks open as he walked.

“What’s wrong?” he asked Gold, handing him two thick grey socks. Gold took them and stared down at his feet, unable to keep the guilt off his face.

“I, uh, got your carpet dirty,” he said. He lifted his left foot again so Hopper could see.

“Oh,” said Hopper. “That’s fine, don’t worry about it. Here, come into the living room--”

He grabbed Gold’s elbow to guide him and Gold jerked away, holding the socks up.

“I’ll put these on first,” he said gruffly. Hopper looked at him doubtfully.

“Can you do that without sitting down?”

Gold glared at him, unwilling to answer that question. “I’m trying to avoid ruining your carpet,” he said. Dr. Hopper raised his eyebrows.

“Then you should go sit down. It’s gonna be a lot worse if you trip and crack your head open on the coat rack.”

Frustrated, Gold tried to think of an argument, but he was having trouble concentrating enough to string words together. The lump was back in his throat again, and he was reminded horribly of the day his ex-wife died. Gold hadn’t cried when he got the news, but throughout the whole week afterward, he’d come close to tears at least a dozen times a day over stupid things, until he finally had the time and the privacy to break down.

That wasn’t going to happen now, he told himself. Not over a house fire. He swept past Hopper into the living room, taking long strides and ignoring all attempts to help him. Gold tugged the socks onto his feet as soon as he reached the couch.

“Okay,” Hopper said. “I’m gonna make dinner -- is chicken and rice okay?”

Gold nodded. He thought, for a moment, that Hopper was talking about the goopy, gruel-like concoction Gold had made sometimes before he got rich, the one he and Bae optimistically called chicken and rice, but then realized Hopper probably meant the actual soup.

“You can take a bath while I get it ready,” Hopper offered. “Come on, I’ll show you the bathroom.”

Gold stood and followed Hopper into the kitchen, where he grabbed the plastic grocery bags. The bathroom was upstairs, wedged between two bedrooms.

“This is how the faucet works,” Hopper said, leaning down to demonstrate. “Just pull it forward like this … turn left to make it warmer. And, uh, towels are in the cupboard, you can use any of them. They’re all clean.”

Gold hummed. The bathroom was horribly bright and it was giving him a splitting headache.

“I can throw your clothes in the laundry,” Hopper offered suddenly, holding his hand out for them. Gold blinked in surprise, looked down at himself, and then back at Hopper. Hopper followed his train of thought and turned bright red.

“I mean -- sorry, I --”

“It’s fine,” said Gold quickly. He unbuttoned his shirt and slid it off, handing it to Hopper. Hopper’s eyes landed on the various fresh bandages on Gold’s torso and then skittered away.

“You, uh, got burned pretty bad, huh?” he said.

“A little,” Gold said. He slid his trousers down and stepped out of them. They left sooty smears on the floor; Gold picked them up gingerly, wiping up the black streaks on the tile as best he could, and deposited them into Hopper’s outstretched hand.

“Does it hurt?” Hopper asked, gesturing toward Gold’s chest again, and then down at the more ghastly, unbandaged burns on his legs. “I have some ibuprofen - I mean, that won’t do much, I guess, but I don’t really have anything stronger...”

Gold just shrugged and pulled his trunks off, preoccupied with thoughts of his nearly-full bottle of Percocet in his bathroom cupboard back home; he only realized what he had done when Hopper let out a squeak and turned away, his face going bright red. Gold’s whole body went through a heat wave that he did his best to squash; he folded his underwear and set it on top of the pile of clothes in Hopper’s hands, his face carefully blank.

“You can go now,” he said flatly, stepping into the tub.

 _So you got naked in front of a near-stranger_ , said a voice in his head. _Own it_.

Gold didn't think he could own it.

“Right,” said Hopper, his eyes closed tight. He made his way toward the door blindly; when he shut it behind him, Gold pulled his knees to his chest and sighed deeply, the cold porcelain of the tub making him shiver.

 _Why. The. Fuck. Did. I. Do. That_ , he thought. He hadn’t been thinking. He’d pulled off his shirt first, which was fine, but then he’d realized he had to take off his trousers too, and by the time he did that, he was desperate to distract Hopper from the scar on his leg.

So he’d shown him his dick instead. _Logically_.

 _God_ , thought Gold, burying his face in his knees. _So stupid_.

He turned the water on as hot as it would go. It swirled around him, rising very slowly. When it was about halfway up his thigh, Gold leaned over for the grocery bag and pulled the bottles out one by one.

He examined the blue-ish, sparkly soap, realizing only now that he didn’t have a washcloth. There was a loofah on the side of the tub, but Gold cringed at the thought of using it. In the end, he just poured the soap onto his hands and rubbed the soot away manually, starting with his legs and feet. There were the untended burns on his legs, too. Gold couldn’t remember, but wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he lied to the paramedics just so they wouldn’t remove his trousers.

Still, he was surprised they listened to him. There were holes burned through his pajama bottoms -- maybe they just hadn’t cared enough to fight him.

Gold splashed water on the burns and then clamped a hand over his mouth to muffle a cry of pain. At least a minute ticked by before he could bring himself to wash another one. It was a long, exceedingly painful bath, especially when soap got in the wounds.

Gold cursed under his breath. It took him over an hour to finish; while the tub water drained, Gold looked around the bathroom for any sign of a First Aid kit he could raid.

 _You’ll be fine if you leave them undressed_ , Gold thought a bit uneasily. He’d done it before, with different wounds. But it was never his first choice.

At least he was warm again. Gold pulled a fluffy pink towel from the cupboard and dried himself just enough to not drip on the floor. He opened the cupboard under the sink and rooted through it, pushing aside bottles of cleaning supplies until he saw a gigantic plastic chest wedged in the back.

He pulled it toward him, maneuvering it clumsily around the sink pipes, and then sat with his back against the cool porcelain of the tub as he went through its contents.

Burn salve. Perfect.

Gold unscrewed the top and looked down at the smooth, undisturbed ointment inside. It had never been used before and it smelled _terrible_. Gold wrinkled his nose as he applied it to his burns, flinching with every touch.

He had just finished the last one when Hopper knocked on the door.

“Mr. Gold?” he called. “Are you decent?”

“One moment,” said Gold. He closed the tub of ointment and put the First Aid kit back as quietly as he could, leaving the burns unbandaged. It took him a little while to get all the clothing packages opened and un-tagged; by the time he stood up, fully dressed, he was certain Hopper would be gone.

He opened the door and ran straight into the other man.

“Hopper,” Gold stuttered, staggering back.

“Sorry,” Hopper said, catching hold of Gold’s forearm to steady him. “I didn’t think you’d come straight out like that -- uh, dinner’s ready, do you wanna --?”

“Yes,” said Gold, not waiting for the end of that sentence. He went ahead of Hopper down the stairs. The smell of chicken broth filled the air, and when Gold reached the kitchen, he found Pongo gleefully gazing up at a covered pot of soup on the stove.

There were little blue flames licking the underside of the pot. Gold’s stomach clenched when he saw them; he turned away quickly, feeling suddenly ill.

“You okay?” Hopper asked him.

“Fine,” Gold said, his voice barely audible. He leaned against the table, eyes closing for a moment. This was stupid. Gold knew all about trauma - he’d had plenty of issues with it in the past - but a fire was too _trivial_ for him to get weak over the sight of flames. He hadn’t been injured -- not badly, at least. Nobody else had been hurt.

He felt Hopper brush past him and heard soup sloshing from the pot into a bowl. Gold forced himself to get it together and sit down. He could feel himself trembling slightly and tried to sit still.

A bowl of soup slid into sight, the steam hitting Gold’s face. He stared into it, gulping down one deep breath after the other.

“Mr. Gold?” said Hopper.

“I--” said Gold. He was having trouble breathing; he blinked rapidly, but it did nothing to help the sudden blurriness of his vision.

Then he felt warm tears rolling down his cheeks. He was crying.

 _Fuck_.

Hopper let out a soft “oh” of sympathy that just embarrassed Gold even more; he turned away, trying to hide his face, and felt broad, warm hands land on his shoulders.

“It’s okay,” Hopper murmured. “Just breathe. You’re okay.”

God, that was condescending. Like Gold would just forget to _breathe_. Then again, it _was_ getting increasingly hard with this lump in his throat. Gold’s chest heaved for a moment, no air coming in, and he was just starting to get embarrassed over how he must look when Hopper pulled him into a hug.

 _How is_ this _supposed to help my breathing?_ Gold wondered. But then the lump in his throat disappeared, leaving Gold capable of both breathing and … crying harder. Audibly, now.

This was the worst day of his life.

“It’s okay,” Hopper said again. “I got you.”

He moved a hand up and down Gold’s back in broad circles and Gold tried not to tense up; he’d never had his back rubbed before, and had always thought it seemed like an uncomfortably vulnerable position. But once he got past the alien feel of it, it started to seem kind of nice.

He pulled back, hiding his face in his hands. Hopper scooted away a little, giving him room - Gold wasn’t sure what to do. He could wipe his eyes and face but he still had no idea what he looked like, and he hated the idea of facing Hopper again without being 100% composed.

“I’ll go get some tissues,” Hopper murmured. Gold heard him walk away, his footsteps going over the tile in the kitchen … and then the hardwood floor in the hallway … and then the soft, white carpet in the living. Gold peeked out from behind his fingers, confirming that Hopper had really left the room.

Hurriedly, Gold stood and checked his reflection in the hallway mirror. He wiped his nose, keeping an ear out for Hopper; his eyes were red and swollen, but there wasn’t much he could do about that.

Fuck. He hadn’t cried in ages.

… It wasn’t quite as embarrassing as he remembered. Maybe that was just because Hopper hadn’t made fun of him or laughed. Although the hug had been just as bad …

Gold sighed and sat back down, staring at his clasped hands. He could hear Hopper hurrying back and he tried to compose himself, tried to think of something to say. His mind was still working sluggishly as Hopper veered back into view, setting a box of tissues on the kitchen table. Gold glanced at it. There were little yellow, one-eyed monsters stamped all over the box.

“Are those …?” he asked weakly.

“Minions,” Hopper confirmed. He looked from the box to Mr. Gold, his nose wrinkling in sympathetic disgust. “Sorry. It’s all they sell at the supermarket these days. And it was on sale, so …”

Gold plucked one tissue out of the box and held it to his nose. It smelled like bananas. He looked up at Hopper, making incredulous eye contact. Hopper stared back at him for a moment and then grabbed a tissue of his own, hesitating before he smelled it. It was obvious he’d just opened the box today - when he sniffed the tissue, he looked almost offended.

“You can’t make tissues _scented_ ,” Hopper said, his voice full of outrage. “Don’t they cause nasal inflammation?”

“I think that’s the ones with lotion,” said Gold. He was glad he’d moved the conversation away from himself so easily. “My -- a boy I used to babysit -- uh, his nose turned red when he used the ones with lotion.”

Hopper hummed. He sat down, pushing the tissues a little closer to Gold before digging into his food. For a moment, Gold was equal parts amazed and relieved that he’d managed to avoid a heart-to-heart after everything that had happened.

He pulled the bowl of soup closer, managing to down a few sips of it. Luckily, Hopper hadn’t given him a very large helping. Gold kept sneaking glances at Hopper; why was he acting like it was _normal_ that Gold had just burst into tears? He wasn’t even questioning it. He was just … calmly eating his food, like people randomly cried around him every day.

An annoying voice in Gold’s head reminded him that Hopper was a therapist. He took a few more bites of the soup, disgruntled. It was a giant blow to his carefully-curated image that Hopper was completely unfazed by Gold crying over … well, over nothing, really. Gold had sort of gotten the impression over his years in Storybrooke that people were _afraid_ of him, but he supposed that had all been a delusion.

Clearly, they weren’t scared enough to _not burn down his house_.

“I can show you your bedroom in a little bit,” Hopper said suddenly, breaking through Gold’s thoughts. “If you wanna go to bed soon. I’m sure you’re tired.”

He stood up, giving Gold a questioning look before collecting his still-full bowl and putting it in the sink. Eventually, Gold nodded, pushing away from the table.

Hopper led him upstairs, showing him everything briefly - “This is my room, there’s the laundry room right there,” - before stopping outside the spare room at the end of the hall. Gold wasn’t totally conscious of Hopper leaving; at some point, he just noticed he was alone in the room and accepted that.

The room was fucking _freezing_.

Gold bent down, opening the vents running alongside the wall. Heat blasted out at him - thank God. He glanced around for a while, just assessing his surroundings.

The window was curtainless, looking out onto the street and making Gold feel unreasonably naked. He sat down on the bed, wondering if people walking by would be able to see him. It seemed very unlikely - but what if someone had seen Hopper pick him up?

His eyes were glued to the window. He couldn’t look away.

It was five minutes before he realized he was waiting for another Molotov cocktail to come soaring through. Gold huffed, tearing his eyes away from the window long enough to get under the covers. Then he was back to watching, waiting. It occurred to him - briefly - that he needed to turn off the light, but the lightswitch was over by the door, and Gold was suddenly, horribly certain that if he looked away for even a moment, disaster would fall.

God, it was hot. Gold threw the blankets back and got out of bed, approaching the window. He glanced outside, his eyes flickering all over the street until he was certain there was nobody out there. Then he bent down, as quickly as he could, and closed the vents again. Gold hurried back to bed, temporarily relieved.

Five minutes passed. Gold turned on his side, facing the window again. He was just glancing at it quickly, just making sure nothing was coming through. But then he couldn’t look away. Seconds ticked by; Gold lay there, his body tensed, ready to run if anything happened.

And then Hopper knocked on the door.

Gold jumped; he was a moment away from flinging the blankets off and running when he realized what the sound was. He went still, hoping that Hopper would go away. But instead, Hopper knocked again, and when Gold didn’t answer, he opened the door and peeked inside.

“Mr. Gold?” Hopper said, a note of surprise in his voice. “Are you sleeping with the lights on?”

Gold went still under the blankets, absolutely mortified. If he just didn’t move, maybe Hopper would think he was asleep.

“Can … can I turn them off?” Hopper asked uncertainly, his fingers hovering over the lightswitch. Gold sucked in a deep breath as quietly as he could, not wanting to admit how tense the idea of darkness made him.

Silence. And then -

“Okay,” Hopper said, moving to turn the lights off. Gold fought his way out from under the blankets, his eyes wide.

“No!” he said. Hopper froze, staring at Gold with his eyebrows raised. Gold stared back; he was focusing hard on not blushing. “I-I’m not going to sleep yet,” Gold said weakly. “Just … keep them on.”

Hopper didn’t answer and Gold swallowed hard, certain that Hopper would question him. But Hopper didn’t; he nodded slowly, seeming to accept Gold’s excuse.

“Okay,” he said. “You want me to go?”

 _No_.

“Yes,” Gold said.

“Okay,” said Hopper uncertainly. “I’ll see you in the morning, then. Goodnight.”

Hopper left, closing the door and leaving the lights on behind him. Gold let out a slow breath, heart hammering in his chest. It took him a few minutes to lay back down; he refused to look at the window again, knowing he’d get stuck watching it if he did.

He squeezed his eyes shut and counted to ten, then counted to twenty, then counted to one hundred. Sleep didn’t come.

Gold opened his eyes again and stared at the ceiling.

It was gonna be a long night.


End file.
